


black and blue

by GwiYeoWeo



Series: mermay 2k19 [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst and Feels, Human Experimentation, M/M, Mentioned Ardyn Izunia, Mer!Noctis, Prompto is just like his dad :), Scientist!Prompto, Sorry Not Sorry, Verstael Besithia makes an appearance, kinda?? lol, ummm this is like a reverse Little Mermaid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 20:28:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19047817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo
Summary: Eyes peer up at him, blinking owlishly, followed by a quiet smile. When the creature swims up to meet him at the surface, hands gently holding onto the edge of the glass for purchase, Prompto smiles back. The sight warms his cold, half-mechanical heart."I brought you snacks, Noct.” He sits on his haunches and hands over a mini fruit tart.Prompto catches the whites of his fangs, of all his fangs — two rows of pearly teeth chiseled into razors, that could cut flesh off bones like a molten knife through butter.Prompto Besithia takes after his father.Noctis Caelum takes what he can.





	black and blue

**Author's Note:**

> :)  
> Have fun.  
> :)
> 
> For added pleasure, I direct you to the song responsible: [Bathtub Mermaid](https://youtu.be/-n-iqXTztVQ)

“Gonna run some more tests tonight.”

“Be prudent and don’t waste your only sample.”

Prompto Besithia grins around his spoon, a beguiling smile that hides sharp teeth and a wicked tongue. His eyes though, crinkle in genuine amusement, despite the artificial flavor that clings to the lab-grown meat and grains. They haven’t quite perfected it, certain chemicals and aftertastes still lingering despite their progress, but no one has complained. Not when the Besithias had single-handedly averted a famine and nationwide crisis, had even been awarded such sigh honors by the Emperor himself. Iedolas is something of a cuckoo — hell, even more bonkers than Prompto’s dad — but everyone seems to play into the whole “all hail the great emperor” and “long live Niflheim” and whatever patriotic mess Caligo spouts out every other sentence. Everyone but the two  _ mad scientists _ keeping them alive, naturally.

“C’mon, have a little more faith,” Prompto nearly whines, mouth full of half-eaten mush. It’s not that bad, honestly; it nearly tastes like the real thing, but he can still get the hints of trace metals and ammonia. Some illogical part of him said it’s the whole psychological thing messing with his taste buds, because he knows he’s artificial himself so it _almost_ feels like cannibalism, considering he's the result of a scientific marriage between splicing genes and bacterial cultures, the DNA coming from none other than Verstael Besithia himself. A clone — one of many — rather than a son, sprouted in a test tube and harvested from a glass chamber as a toddler. “I’ve done well so far, haven’t I?”

But through some mutation, through  _ evolution, _ he came out on top, proved he wasn’t destined to be a brainless MT ready to have an aimbot program downloaded into his brain. He was sentient and, to Verstael’s utter delight, had a savage thirst for knowledge and discovery just like his father. So now, rather than some expendable hunk of twisted metal ready to be turned into frazzled wires and aluminum scraps, he sits at the dinner table and talks lab tests and future projects, a leading figure in Niflheim’s rapidly advancing technology, along with father Verstael. And if they actually share some genuine father-son sentiments here and there, that’s a plus. 

“A reminder to keep it like that, then.” Verstael sits across from him, cutting into an unassuming steak drenched in a thin brown sauce. He looks up, hands stilling for a moment, to level a look of disapproval at Prompto. Not for any particular failures or mishaps in the lab but for his son’s lack of table manners. 

Prompto acknowledges it by shutting his mouth and gulping his food down, staring right back and licking the grin on his lips. It’s jarring, really, how similar they look. Verstael is graying a bit, with lines set around his mouth and crow’s feet spreading from his eyes, but they’re nearly identical. It’s a given, considering he’s a literal clone, but he wonders just how much of his DNA mutated; there are small differences, little bits he’s still trying to search and find, like how his freckles are just a bit darker and spread out or how his eyes have just a touch more purple in them. (Or how Prompto’s voice is more of a tenor than his father’s baritone, he once lamented.) The common folk just think how wonderful it is for the son to be the spitting image of his father, and Prompto really can’t help but laugh whenever he hears them say it. 

They couldn’t be more further from nor closer to the truth.

As they peruse over data and statistics, Prompto chiming in to ask how Verstael’s latest batch of upgraded magitek soldiers were doing, he foregoes the rest of his dinner and pushes it away, picking up a new clean plate to gather the various desserts onto. If his father rolls his eyes at that, he doesn’t acknowledge it in favor of piling his plate high with a few mini pies and cream puffs, the sugar overload enough to mask whatever artificial flavoring they have yet managed to fix.

“Y’know, I could say the same thing to you too, daddy-o.” Prompto waves a half-bitten cupcake in the air, ignoring the white mustache frosting he’s acquired. “You and that Adagium guy.” 

He says it amicably enough, keeps his tone light and cheery, but there’s a definite challenge hidden in his words. A dare, or a threat. As if to say,  _ ‘Look who’s talking. Stay out of my business, and I’ll stay out of yours.’ _

Verstael narrows his eyes, the only visible sign of offense he’s taken — or maybe that’s pride at such audacity, since Prompto, as much of a genius he is, still has trouble figuring his father out sometimes. Both, maybe. "Yes, well," he says, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin, "I've no need to fear my specimen of dying, unlike yours who — might I remind you — is very mortal.” 

"Touché,” Prompto concedes, licking off the cupcake frosting from his fingers. He lifts his dessert plate into the air, giving it a lazy slow wave at his father, and pushes his chair back to stand. "But like you said, he's mortal. So time to go feed him before he starves to death."

"You spoil him."

"But it's working, isn't it?" His eyes glint with something cunning and dangerous. "Treat 'im nice enough and he'll never want to leave."

"Conditioned him like a goldfish, then? Have him swimming to you at just the sight of food?" 

"Nah, pops.” Prompto laughs, filled with mirth, as he exits the dining room. “At the sight of  _ me. _ "

  
  
  


He walks on glass, reinforced and strengthened to hold up against all the weight of machinery, equipment, and a small horde of visiting scientists coupled with bodyguard MTs. The old lab has long been repurposed to serve as an aquarium and observation room, the entire floor pulled apart and dug into the level below, to make a livable space for his most prized experiment. He stops at an edge, where the glass tapers off to saltwater, and he leans over to skim a finger across the surface. 

Below, he sees movement behind the few tank decorations he's allowed in — a few shells and plants, a low archway salvaged from some bleached dead coral, and an extra-large air stone in the corner. For such a large aquarium, that spans the entire length of the laboratory, it’s barren; no tankmates to keep company except for the single crab skittering about the sand, which goes darting off once a large dark fin nearly topples it over. 

Prompto sees the tail first, a midnight blue so deep it’s almost black, with lighter scar tissue ribbed across the scales, marring the once sleek skin with raised bumps and cuts. Wounds too precise and surgical to be accidental injuries. Then, the same dark hair that frames a pale face, some locks keeping close, while others free flow like a bastardized crown around him. Eyes peer up at him, blinking owlishly, followed by a quiet smile. When the creature swims up to meet him at the surface, hands gently holding onto the edge of the glass for purchase, Prompto smiles back. The sight warms his cold, half-mechanical heart. 

"I brought you snacks, Noct.” He sits on his haunches and hands over a mini fruit tart. 

Noctis takes it gratefully with both hands and takes a tentative sample, unsure of the flavors hidden within all the sugary glaze and cream. But the first bite proves passable at least, and he eats the rest without reserve, even licking the crumbs off his too sharp nails. 

Prompto catches the whites of his fangs, of  _ all _ his fangs — two rows of pearly teeth chiseled into razors, that could cut flesh off bones like a molten knife through butter. Noctis would probably like meat sometime soon. Proper meat, not the lab-grown things. He wonders if anyone’s been on the Emperor’s shitlist lately, and if His Excellency would like them to quietly disappear in an unfortunate lab accident. If not, he’s sure there’s some old Galahdian rebels rotting away in their cells. 

He handfeeds the last dessert to Noctis, the dear thing making sure none of his teeth even scrape the skin of Prompto’s hand. He brushes the backs of his fingers against Noctis’ cheek, and if the boy could purr, he certainly would, especially with how he chases for Prompto’s touch. The water’s kept at a consistent five degrees Celsius, too cold for any man but just right for the mer, who insisted it was always too hot until Prompto figured out the sweet spot; yet still, Noctis chases after that physical warmth. A little touch-starved, according to Prompto’s theory, considering there’s not much to be offered to one confined in a lonesome underground aquarium. Also, a theory he believes to be fact, and one he’s been taking full advantage of. 

When Prompto stands and heads toward the cabinets and drawers adorning the sterile white walls, Noctis heaves himself up from the water in one effortless motion and sits at the edge, leaving most of his tail to wade in the tank. Prompto glances back to see him wait patiently, though he notices his claws clicking rhythmically against the glass — a nervous tick. Noctis looks below, eyes probably following the single crab walking across the sand or perhaps watching the plants waving to and fro, but Prompto doesn’t need to see his face to know. 

Noctis never likes this part, but he gives himself up willingly. Whatever Prompto asks of him, be it a drop of blood or a pound of flesh, his darling thing offers it. He remembers when he first introduced the idea, painting his plan with a white coat of innocence, and asked the young boy if he’d be willing to let Prompto “help” him. But Noctis is no fool; he knows the ulterior motives the young scientist had at the time, and still has, though neither has ever spoken anything directly of it. It’s a part of the game they play, these rounds of make-believe they both fool themselves into: Prompto an adoring childhood friend, Noctis a scarred castaway looking for comfort. He gives, Prompto takes. An unfair trade, perhaps, but at least he’s not entirely heartless and offers rewards where they’re due. 

Prompto does, after all — despite his skewed moral compass and enthusiasm to experiment on his own friend — hold a certain genuine affection for Noctis, as twisted as it may be.

"This'll be quick today, promise," Prompto half lies. He doesn't know how long it'll actually take; maybe he'll see something interesting and take more samples, maybe he'll be satisfied with the findings and need no more for the night. What he does know, however, is that Noctis will suffer through each ticking second of it all, with no more than a mild squirm or a quiet wince. He places all his things on a spotless surgical tray — new scalpels, some vials and syringes, tissue forceps, eye needles for the sutures — and brings it with him to Noctis. 

This time, Prompto comes up next to him, ignoring the wet spots that drip from Noctis and onto the glass, and sits to his side. He doesn't care for how the water soaks through the back of his pants; it comes with the territory anyhow, and he settles the steel tray in between them to take off his shoes and socks before dipping his feet into the cold water beneath. Goosebumps crawl up his skin, not only from the near-freezing temperature but also from the slick tail that brushes against his ankle. Noctis holds power underneath those muscles and a definite swiftness in his limbs. He could wrap his tail around that ankle and drag him to drown in the very tank he had built, but Prompto holds every confidence that he won’t. 

He tears open an iodine packet, and Noctis tenses in a conditioned response, knowing and expecting what’s to come. He doesn’t run, doesn’t move until Prompto tells him what he wants though. 

“Hmmm.” Prompto clicks the plastic and cracks the iodine scrub, releasing the antiseptic throughout the swab, and hovers it over Noctis’ forearm where the pectoral fins meet human skin. “What are we gonna check out first?”

He’s quick to change his mind, though, and moves to the hip, where tender flesh blends seamlessly into dull scales. Prompto’s been wanting to do a cross-section of the cells there, to see just where the human half ends and the Hydraean DNA splices itself in, and add it to his little box of prepared specimens. 

“Be good, like always?” Prompto offers a cold smile, and scrubs the area in a circular motion. The orange-brown antiseptic bleeds in between the cracks of the scales, and he suspects the red will follow their paths soon enough. 

Noctis nods, once and slowly, and he stares at Prompto, keeping his eyes away from the scalpels and tweezers on the tray. “I will.”

There’s that odd look again, that indiscernible secret hidden in that stormy gaze of his. Prompto hasn’t figured it out yet, what it means, and Noctis has yet to make any motion to speak of it. It’s certainly not fear or anger, nor is it loathing or hatred. He once wondered if it was love, but Noctis has never held his affection in secret; he gives it like he’s running a charity, yet desires it like a beggar across the street. There's something… Calculating and determined from what Prompto can figure out, but the rest is shut tight behind those cold blue eyes of his. 

_ 'Maybe,'  _ he thinks, as he stares right back at Noctis,  _ 'if I can dissect those pretty little eyes, I can figure it out.'  _

It would be easy. He knows Noctis would give up his sight just to keep Prompto by his side. And the idea of that, all so suddenly, strikes him as funny. Because really, Prompto is the one keeping  _ him,  _ not the other way around. Noctis is the one tethered here, trapped inside a freezing tank with no one but Prompto to call his only company and the only reason he's still  _ alive _ and not beheaded because Iedolas had deemed the crippled Prince as useless. 

Thirty seconds are up, and he flicks the iodine scrub across the room, where it lands cleanly inside a biohazard bin. 

"Lie down." He gently pushes one hand on Noctis' shoulder, and the boy obeys readily, pressing his back against the cold glass beneath them. He even slides himself out of the water a bit more, to offer Prompto more of his own body to poke and prod and cut, despite knowing and hating the pain of knives and needles. 

Noctis is a darling thing, and Prompto loves him all the more for it. He picks up a scalpel, light glinting off the cold steel, and he leans over to comfort Noctis' trembling with a kiss to his collarbone, where the pale skin stretches itself thin and taut. He holds the blade just above the hip, the edge barely touching skin and scales. 

"Love you, Noct."

He cuts away with surgical precision, all while Noctis bites into the back of his fist and silences his cries. 

 

* * *

 

He's seven and cold and scared and a pile of broken bones drowning in his own blood, when steel-faced soldiers gather him from under a corpse and haul him away to Niflheim. 

It's an uphill battle, and his consciousness stumbles and slips, and all he wants is for them to let him  _ sleep.  _ Even if his father isn't here, Noctis can at least find comfort in his dreams and in the safety net of Carbuncle's domain. But they don't let him. They hook him up to wires and noisy machines that beep at him incessantly. At some points, all he knows is a dark warm void, when the beeping stops and goes into a straight high-pitched drone, but he's always stolen from his comforting cocoon by a bolt of electricity that fires up his nerves and has his muscles spasming. 

If there's pain, he's not really aware of it. 

Until he finally wakes up from his coma, and he's a screaming mess until someone dressed in white sticks a needle into him, missing his thin veins twice before finally hitting it home. 

The next time he wakes, he's awfully numb, and turning his neck feels like turning the rusted cogs of a broken machine. He sees a boy, who looks the exact opposite of him, with his blonde hair and little freckles and violet-blue eyes. They stare at each other in silence, the blonde boy never even blinking, and the expressionless face makes him think the he must be a realistic doll rather than a human being. 

But then he  _ talks. _ And if Noctis wasn't paralyzed — it's weird and uncomfortable, he thinks, that he can't feel anything in his legs, but the haze of his mind keeps him from going any further than that — he’d probably jump out of his own skin at the sound. 

“Good morning. I’m Prompto Besithia.”

Those few short words sound like the beginnings of a voicemail. It’s too telegraphed, sounds too rehearsed, but Noctis latches onto them like the desperate child that he is. Mechanical doll or not, he's the only one to actually  _ talk to him _ or offer anything close to human contact, and Noctis is alone and scared of his own shadow. 

So Prompto becomes the only constant in his life, well, aside from the suffering under Niflheim’s emperor. 

Noctis wasn’t rescued because Aldercapt had a kind heart and was seeking to make amends with Lucis, unlike the fairytale endings his father used to read to him. (He cries over the bittersweet memories until he runs out of grief to feel.) He learns too quickly the ulterior motives the mad king has, that it was all  _ his _ doing Noctis had almost died that day and why his governess and a crew of Crownsguard were all murdered by a daemon’s hand. 

Because if Aldercapt couldn’t get his hands on the Crystal or the King guarding it, the Prince was his next best bet. 

Noctis can do nothing but play the exalted guinea pig for them. He’s small, defenseless, and crippled, and a seven-year-old boy can only do so much thrashing before those hands and vice grips hold him and strap him down onto the steel table, or sedate him with a merciless syringe and plop him into some machine and dig wires into his flesh. 

He can’t understand the jargon the scientists speak, but he understands the gist of things. If Regis holds a direct tether to the Crystal, then his son should hold  _ some _ sort of power over it as well, and that tie may be just what Aldercapt needs to get his hands on the Lucian treasure. 

Thus.

He’s seven when his world is ripped away from him, his father a distant memory of a life now gone, when he sees his little crown bathe in the blood of his friends and guards and melt in the flames of the Marilith. When his hand-tailored clothes are replaced with rough open-backed gowns on the best of days, and when he’s left to shiver in the cold in nothing but his own skin on the worst of days. 

He’s ten when he gives up hope that his father will come and rescue him, shining in a halo of power and surrounded by dozens of ancient weapons. 

He’s eleven when he gives up entirely, and he cries only so he can feel  _ something  _ other than the needles and shocks of their electric prongs. 

He’s fifteen when  _ they _ give up. And Noctis foolishly thinks this is it, that he’s going to die now because they’ve found no use of him, and he thinks it's a blessing to finally be free of them. He doesn’t have the tie to the Crystal their emperor went mad for, and Aldercapt's patience has only grown thin with each passing year his researchers have no results to show for, lopping off one head for every month there's nothing. Noctis lost count after the twentieth-something rolled across the tile floor in a trail of blood, lips slightly parted and still glistening eyes staring right at him. 

Through the near eight years spent in this freezing hellhole, Noctis has the small comfort that was Prompto Besithia, an outlier in the older Besithia's cloning labs, Noctis had learned. Prompto had no issues detailing his life's story, proudly explaining his origins as a single cell living with a Scourge sample in his neighborhood petri plate to moving into a giant test tube and busting out of it as a toddler. Half-human, half-machine, he once said of himself, pointing at his head and mentioning a computer processor in there. 

But out of every damn sadist who Noctis had the displeasure of meeting, Prompto was the most human out of all of them. He snuck into his isolation room, held Noctis' hand through the worst of the fevers and delirium, brought him pictures and small gifts and stories of the world outside the lab. Sometimes, Verstael — Prompto's "father" — hitched along, and Noctis could easily see the family resemblance despite the years separating the pair. Verstael headed a different department, his studies and research devoted to machines and weaponry, but he somehow had special clearance granting him an all access pass, even to the project concerning the torture of a small prince. 

Verstael never showed remorse or pity, Noctis never expected him to. 

But when the man shows up today, along with the damned Emperor himself, while the scientists do their regular poking and prodding with his skin and bones — while he's fully conscious for fuck’s sake — Noctis gets the first surprise in a long while. 

Because he expects to die, to be tossed down the chute with the scattered remains of failed MTs, since he's been deemed useless and a waste of precious lab resources. The Emperor is here today because he's finally had it, and his workers are pathetic wormbrains who can't tell the difference between a scalpel and a bulldozer, so he's going to save everyone the trouble by finally putting the poor boy out of his misery. 

And the kicker? Noctis only lives because Verstael vouches for him — rather, he asks for a hand-me-down toy to gift his son. 

Prompto even pops his head out from behind Verstael's fluttering lab coat. “If you don’t want him anymore," he says, trying to nail the final head on the coffin, "just give ‘im to me. I’m sure I can get at least something.” 

Noctis wants to cry, to laugh. He wants to die and live all at once, and he can't even make the decision for himself now that his fate is once again in the hands of another. Instead of blood, he tastes betrayal and relief on his tongue. 

  
  
  


He never really had any doubts. 

He may not have known when his next meals would be, if they'd just feed him intravenously with cocktails of nutrients and supplements, or if they were just going to run some biopsies or take so many blood samples to nearly run him dry. He may not have known what day would be his last, or if his hours were numbered or set on an infinite timeline. 

But what he does know, is that Prompto Besithia cannot be given a modicum of trust. And in that knowledge, with the facts he lumped together with the most basic rules of reality, he finds comfort and stability and  _ control.  _

Prompto never lies, because he has no reason to. He has power and rank and prestige, and those three are enough to get him almost anything he wants in all of Niflheim. He does what he enjoys, goes where the cold winds of Shiva’s corpse sway him to, follows his own whimsies of the day and pursues it relentlessly. But while he does not lie, he dresses his harsh truths in such frills and delicate colors, and offers his poisons surrounded by sweets and silver.

When they first met, Noctis a scared and hurt child and Prompto a curious half-boy, Noctis took whatever form of security and comfort that he could. He didn’t care that this Prompto was Niflheim-born, didn’t question  _ why _ a young little thing could roam in and out and about the classified lab base as he pleased. He didn’t care what form or origin it came in, so long as he could find something, anything to help keep himself from shattering under the suffocating weight of fear and despair. 

He devoured whatever companionship Prompto offered, listened to whatever spiel he chattered on about, counted the minutes and seconds that passed until the boy would wander in again with a trinket or fragment of his science project for that day. He ignored the dim light of red in his pupils, whenever his eyes seemed to catch the overhead fluorescent lights at just the right angle, and pretended Prompto was just a fellow child looking for companionship and offering his mercies. 

Noctis always knew — felt it like a tiny thorn stuck under his fingernail — that it was all wrong. He suspected that the Niffs, Aldercapt or the scientists or whoever, were simply using Prompto as a way to worm their way into his good graces, a Trojan horse who was offered as a friend but housed a parasite to break down his defenses from the inside. Throw him into despair, dangle that spider’s thread of hope, and let Noctis wish and believe just to weaponize it and bend him even more to their will. 

And if that was truly their intention, they won. He knew. He knew they couldn’t be trusted, knew Prompto and his too clear eyes and plastic smile held secrets and self-driven motivations, but Noctis was so driven into desperation that he forced himself to play along. He needed to survive, to live and see his father and friends and Insomnia again, and he could only last so long without losing his sanity. He needed to  _ bend _ lest he break _ ,  _ and if that meant bending his own mind and dancing along to their piper’s song, then he’d delude himself into believing. 

So he pretended. He pretended Prompto was a curious boy and not in service to the Emperor, pretended their friendship was genuine and not a game of house, pretended that there was still hope to be had when there was nothing but darkness ahead.

But no matter how much he tried to convince himself, he could only run on the fumes of hope for so long. He gave up the idea of a future, of reuniting with his friends and kingdom, so he gave himself over to their cruel hands and let them play with him as they wished, waiting for the day Aldercapt would tire of him. 

And of course, when that chance finally came, Prompto — in both mercy and cruelty — snatched up the rights to Noctis' life before they could be tossed into the garbage. 

So Noctis sits here, in a room far too reminiscent of his childhood, with its fine draperies and soft carpet and trims of gold among the reds and whites of Niflheim’s colors. He sits on the bed, his back against the headboard and his unfeeling legs spread over the smooth sheets, while Prompto digs through his closet and starts picking out shirts and pants to fit Noctis in. He sits and watches, wonders what game they're to play, if Prompto will continue to be that endearing and cheerful companion while Noctis the pitiful and meek charity case, and decides there's no point in thinking about it when he convinces himself this make-believe is reality. It's the only way he can go on, to put on his rose-colored glasses and act as if he's relieved to escape death. To be thankful that Prompto took away his well-deserved rest. 

  
  
  


“Y’know how a long time ago, dad found Ifrit hibernating in some volcano? We found Leviathan in Ulei Trench, just a little ways west of Altissia.”

When Prompto returns to him one day, bearing a plate of dubious-looking fruit and word of a grand discovery, Noctis receives the news he's been waiting for. Prompto doesn't betray his expectations either, and he delivers his grand tidings with such finesse and hope that Noctis  _ almost _ believes the honesty in them. 

“I sort of got dibs on her, since dad and Adagium’s been playing around with Ifrit. And I want to try something new.” He hands Noctis an apple, the skin such an artificial and unsettling red, but when Noctis curls his fingers around it, Prompto wraps both his hands around Noctis’. His hands aren’t cold, not like they once were, now that Prompto’s learned how to regulate his body temperature to a perfect thirty-seven Celsius; but just like everything surrounding Prompto, it’s  _ too _ perfect and calculated that he may as well have his plastic cold touch again because it’s far less unsettling. 

Prompto applies just the right amount of pressure, cupping Noctis’ hand in near reverence and with such gentleness to make him believe, and he stares into his own reflection. That gaze is too tender, too practiced, like Prompto knows just how much conviction and warmth he needs to earn Noctis’ trust. 

Which is laughable, really, because Prompto will  _ never _ get it. Instead, he’ll get something better: obedience. 

It’s here, where Noctis looks at the lines he’s drawn: the delicate boundaries of what is his, what is not, what will be, and what will be lost. He finds himself at these crossroads, more times than he cares to, and wonders just how far he’s willing to go. Here, now, he has Prompto. Here, Noctis is his object of attention, his diamond in the rough to polish or crack, a blank canvas to paint or rip apart; and for now, it’s all Noctis needs to keep Prompto  _ tied to him. _ And he has no intention of letting Prompto throw him away. Not yet, not when Prompto has no right to. 

For when Prompto decided he was going to keep Noctis, Noctis decided he was going to keep Prompto — by whatever means necessary. This is his revenge, because if Prompto wanted to play this game and coat everything in sickly fine sugar, then Noctis was going to take every damn thing he had to offer and weave their lives in barbed wire if he had to. 

“Do whatever you want. I’m yours.” Noctis says it simply enough, but he has Prompto eating out of his palms. 

It’s cute, how Prompto words it as if he’s giving Noctis a choice, but he knows there’s never really an option. There’s nothing stopping him from playing with Noctis as he sees fit, to cut and slice like the other previous researchers did, but he keeps up with the appearances of a “childhood friend” like he’s made for it. He even offers his reasoning as a plan specifically made for Noctis’ benefit. 

“It’ll be a long process. We gotta fix up your spine first, see what needs replacing or not, then we can get to the fun part,” Prompto explains. Noctis doesn’t feel the way his fingers run up and down his legs, paralyzed and unfeeling as they are, but he sees the way his hands like to still at his thighs and knees. He recognizes that look, the way his gaze doesn’t speak of affection or love but rather of numbers and charts and formulas. 

“They might not be legs, in the end, but you’ll be able to move. Doesn’t that sound like a fun idea?”

There he goes again, phrasing his words like Noctis even gets a choice. But he plays along anyway, nods his head, and that’s all the consent either of them need. 

  
  
  


It starts gently, simple blood tests to check compatibility, a few minor skin samples here and there. Noctis doesn't bother to hold his breath though, and he waits with silent conviction for the day Prompto walks in with a whole cart of vials, forceps, and whatever mad scientists like to use. He's had worse — perhaps not physically (yet), but mentally. All during that time he had let those researchers tear him apart, he held hope and a miserable wish, and each passing day made his heart rend itself. Now there's no expectation to shatter, no tears to shed over broken promises and lofty dreams. 

But when Prompto takes an agonizingly long time to take that plunge, Noctis makes the decision for him and takes them both over the edge, grabbing him at his collar and dragging him down to eye level. 

“Stop beating around the bush. I know what you want, and you know what I want.  _ I’m done playing this round of the game. _ ”

  
  
  


Noctis trades flesh and blood for false comforts and plastic warmth; Prompto trades sweet smiles and gentle touches for each pound and pint. It’s easier to play when both of them find their roles, and they become grand actors in their own rights. Sometimes, Noctis even fools himself. 

His skin itches, layers peeling and sloughing off like an infection eating away at him. There’s dried blood underneath his fingernails, where he scratches and tears despite the heat of pain that follows, and Prompto has to physically restrain him to keep himself from further damage. His neck, ribs, and arms are the worst, where his darkened skin seem to be inflamed but take on a dark blue hue with raised bumps. Raised scales. Prompto makes sure to take daily skin biopsies and blood samples. 

His neck aches, and breathing becomes a conscious effort. Where his carotid arteries are, his skin breaks in two large gashes, and Prompto dutifully cleans the wounds and packs them with sterile dressings. It feels like a breath of fresh air when it’s time to re-do his packing, whenever the gauze is plucked out from them like a rubber stopper. Noctis can’t help but feel how stiff it feels to turn his neck, and even the strongest analgesics only take the edge off the burning pain. Still, Prompto rewards his suffering and patience with whole-hearted attention and beguiling coos; Noctis receives it all like a child coddling his lollipop after a doctor’s visit. So long as each keep up their part of the bargain, there’s no complaint to be had. 

When Prompto decides it’s time to strap him to the operating table and peel through his back for his spine, Noctis is just grateful for the medically-induced coma. 

When he awakes, he’s surrounded by water and glass and for the first time that year, he takes in a deep breath that  _ finally _ fills him with satisfaction. 

 

* * *

 

“Prompto.”

Prompto eats the last of the desserts left over, when Noctis insisted he had no more room left. He licks the brittle crumbs off his thumb and wipes at the bit of cream from the puff pastry, then licks that too. If his father saw him like this, his head cradled in the cold lap of his dear mer, he’s sure Verstael would be shaking his head in exasperation. Not because of the familiarity he treats Noctis with, but because of his terrible eating manners — munching away messily on a midnight snack while lying down. 

He can already hear his father clicking his tongue at him, saying  _ “Don’t haunt my laboratory should you choke and suffocate, foolish boy.” _

So before the Verstael in his head can lecture him any further, he ignores his father’s voice and replies with a hum. He also ignores the way Noctis’ hand snakes its way up to his throat. He feels four claws gently press into his flesh, a reminder that they’re  _ there _ and could claw through his throat to rip his vocal cords out. He only misses the fifth claw because he decided to “trim” it all the way to the cuticle for and save it for analysis later. 

“Stay.”

Prompto lifts his eyes to gaze into sweet, tragically beautiful blues, and he sees a ring of magenta surrounding them. It used to be so pale, a dim purple. Ah, how he desperately wants to see the architect behind those eyes. If he plucked one out, would it still hold his reflection? Would Noctis still look upon him with a love so vindictive yet so voracious? 

But of course. All Prompto has to do is offer himself. 

He brushes his fingers over Noctis’ hand, where his nails threaten to shred through his jugular, and takes it to press a kiss on his scarred knuckles. 

“As long as you want.” Prompto smiles. Cold, like the aquarium that has them both trapped. 

**Author's Note:**

> (ʘ‿ʘ✿)  
> thanks for suffering


End file.
